A friend recently confessed that not only had he never prayed, he had never found an adequate opportunity to do so. Why bother, he asked, to resort to empty words to a God who is at best noncommittal and at worst uncaring?

I gave him an appreciative nod. There had been times in my life when I suspected God to be both, but in the end the opposite had always held to be true. But his words struck me. Prayer was much a part of my life even in my darkest days. Not praying, no matter how far the distance between myself and God, was never an option.

I’d always assumed there were many in the world who never lifted their voice to heaven. I’d just never known one.

I figured I prayed about seven times a day. Not bad, really, until I started thinking about some of the things I prayed both for and about. Asking for God to watch over my loved ones is a lot different than asking Him to let the Yanks win and the Sox lose. I asked for both over the weekend.

And while asking Him to make my headache go away is maybe an okay thing, asking Him to give the person who caused my headache sudden and uncontrollable diarrhea probably wasn’t.

It all got me thinking not only about how and when I pray, but how and when others do the same. Prayer is something many of us take for granted. I doubt we pause enough to consider the gravity of actually speaking to the Creator of the universe.

Prayer is serious stuff. Fascinating, too. Nothing says more about us than how we talk to God. So I decided to take last Sunday and observe both family and friends in a sort of super secret prayer survey. I wanted to know who got it just right, who didn’t quite, and why.

Church seemed like a logical starting point. Lots of people pray in church. I listened to the Sunday School teacher, the pastor, and an usher pray with both an eloquence and spirit that I could aspire to but never quite accomplish. Eloquence has never been my strong suit. Me often don’t talk like that pretty.

Lunch with my wife’s family, however, seemed more promising. There are a lot of things country folk can do better than others, and talking to God is among them. Country prayers are not as flowery as church prayers. There are plenty of ain’ts and gonnas. It’s not praying, it’s prayin’. Big difference.

So we prayed for the hands that cooked the food and the ground that grew it. For the rain that would make the corn grow and the closeness of family. That prayer was nice. Homey. But it still wasn’t quite…right. Something was missing.

Bedtime found my family gathered around my daughter’s bed, knees to floor. And though I normally assume the traditional pose of head bowed and hands folded, I cheated that night. I kept my eyes and ears open as my children prayed. Together.

“I didn’t like the broccoli,” my daughter said. “Can you please do something about that?”

“You made pretty clouds tonight.”

“I love you, God.”

“I love you too, God.”

“We both love you.”

Then, together: “Amen.”

I walked outside a while later to make sure the stars were still there and say goodnight to God. I’ve always liked praying outside. For some strange reason, I’ve always thought my words could go through a ceiling of clouds much easier than a ceiling of plaster.

I’ll be honest. Prayer has always been a little confusing to me. Like the people at church, I’ve tried to be eloquent and flowery. Like the people I shared lunch with, I’ve tried to be folksy and homey. And like my children, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

It isn’t always easy to put thoughts and feelings to words, no matter to whom we’re talking.

I guess in the end it isn’t so much what we say to God as it is the heart with which it’s said. What we can’t explain, He knows. What we can’t say quite right He knows exactly.

And sometimes, many times, a prayer needs no words at all.

Which is why that night, there beneath the stars, I simply looked to heaven and smiled.

A friend recently confessed that not only had he never prayed, he had never found an adequate opportunity to do so. Why bother, he asked, to resort to empty words to a God who is at best noncommittal and at worst uncaring?

I gave him an appreciative nod. There had been times in my life when I suspected God to be both, but in the end the opposite had always held to be true. But his words struck me. Prayer was much a part of my life even in my darkest days. Not praying, no matter how far the distance between myself and God, was never an option.

I’d always assumed there were many in the world who never lifted their voice to heaven. I’d just never known one.

I figured I prayed about seven times a day. Not bad, really, until I started thinking about some of the things I prayed both for and about. Asking for God to watch over my loved ones is a lot different than asking Him to let the Yanks win and the Sox lose. I asked for both over the weekend.

And while asking Him to make my headache go away is maybe an okay thing, asking Him to give the person who caused my headache sudden and uncontrollable diarrhea probably wasn’t.

It all got me thinking not only about how and when I pray, but how and when others do the same. Prayer is something many of us take for granted. I doubt we pause enough to consider the gravity of actually speaking to the Creator of the universe.

Prayer is serious stuff. Fascinating, too. Nothing says more about us than how we talk to God. So I decided to take last Sunday and observe both family and friends in a sort of super secret prayer survey. I wanted to know who got it just right, who didn’t quite, and why.

Church seemed like a logical starting point. Lots of people pray in church. I listened to the Sunday School teacher, the pastor, and an usher pray with both an eloquence and spirit that I could aspire to but never quite accomplish. Eloquence has never been my strong suit. Me often don’t talk like that pretty.

Lunch with my wife’s family, however, seemed more promising. There are a lot of things country folk can do better than others, and talking to God is among them. Country prayers are not as flowery as church prayers. There are plenty of ain’ts and gonnas. It’s not praying, it’s prayin’. Big difference.

So we prayed for the hands that cooked the food and the ground that grew it. For the rain that would make the corn grow and the closeness of family. That prayer was nice. Homey. But it still wasn’t quite…right. Something was missing.

Bedtime found my family gathered around my daughter’s bed, knees to floor. And though I normally assume the traditional pose of head bowed and hands folded, I cheated that night. I kept my eyes and ears open as my children prayed. Together.

“I didn’t like the broccoli,” my daughter said. “Can you please do something about that?”

“You made pretty clouds tonight.”

“I love you, God.”

“I love you too, God.”

“We both love you.”

Then, together: “Amen.”

I walked outside a while later to make sure the stars were still there and say goodnight to God. I’ve always liked praying outside. For some strange reason, I’ve always thought my words could go through a ceiling of clouds much easier than a ceiling of plaster.

I’ll be honest. Prayer has always been a little confusing to me. Like the people at church, I’ve tried to be eloquent and flowery. Like the people I shared lunch with, I’ve tried to be folksy and homey. And like my children, I’ve tried to keep things simple.

It isn’t always easy to put thoughts and feelings to words, no matter to whom we’re talking.

I guess in the end it isn’t so much what we say to God as it is the heart with which it’s said. What we can’t explain, He knows. What we can’t say quite right He knows exactly.

And sometimes, many times, a prayer needs no words at all.

Which is why that night, there beneath the stars, I simply looked to heaven and smiled.

She and her husband were in the back row. That was the accustomed place for my family and in-laws, as we are numerous enough to require an entire pew unto ourselves. We scrunched in, the seven of us seated at her and her husband’s left, careful not to bump her wheelchair.

“I love you,” she said, first to my wife and then my daughter. Her words were muffled and childlike, as if spoken in surprise and through a mouth filled with marbles.

“I love you,” she said to the couple who approached her. They placed their hands on her shoulders and spoke in calm and deliberate words. They asked how she was feeling, how she was. “I love you,” she said again, and the smile on her face said more than her faded vocabulary could.

The preacher—“I love you”—said he loved her right back. He tucked his worn leather Bible under his left arm and took her hand in both of his. I watched as the muscles in his forearm flexed, giving her fingers a light squeeze, praising God.

“I love you.”

The congregation settled into the Sunday morning ritual of greeting/prayer/announcement. The pianist then began the opening of the first hymn—“To God be the Glory”—and all but she stood to praise the Lord in song.

To God be the glory, great things He hath done…

The slow movement to my left was hers. She placed one frail hand upon her husband’s and bid him to help her stand. He placed his arms around her and hefted her up, steadying her against the gravity that pushed down on her and the mind that worked to make sense of it all. I wondered if this too was the glory of God, a great thing He hath done.

I watched her as she sang, her voice too soft to stand with the others but her lips moving free, mouthing not O perfect redemption, the purchase of blood, but I love you I love you I love you I love.

I watched her, and what I saw was the woman she once was rather than the woman she was now. The Sunday school teacher, the choir member, the woman who organized Bible School in the summer and the Christmas program in the winter, the woman who at the young age of barely fifty had suffered a stroke that erased much of who she’d been and replaced it with a child imprisoned in a cell of flesh and blood. A child who needed help to move and wash and eat and whose vocabulary was condensed to three words.

I love you.

Act II of the Sunday morning ritual contained further announcements and a brief presentation by the church’s youngsters. Do not ask me what was said, I don’t know. I suppose I should have been listening, but I was watching her. Watching as she eased back into her wheelchair and looked out with bright but confused eyes. Watching as she said I love you to her husband.

We rose for the offertory hymn, this “Worthy of Worship,” a congregational favorite. She remained seated this time—she’s so tired now, not like before—but mouthed her own translation nonetheless, mouthing

I love you I love, you I love you

where we sang

Worthy of rev’rence, worthy of fear

And I wondered upon looking at her—God help me, but I did—that her sight made me fear God but also tempted me not to reverence Him. What God was worthy of reverence who could allow such a thing to one of His own? To pardon the darkness of this world and allow it to strip this woman down? To leave her a husk of what she once was and call it good?

For much the same reasons I missed the children’s presentation, I missed the sermon. The congregation rose. I joined them when I saw that she and I were the only people not standing. Three men stood behind the podium, songbooks in their hands, as the piano began the closing hymn, Farther Along.

I did not sing. Could not. I was watching her instead, still not knowing the Why—it’s always the Why that trips me up—but knowing that the fears and worries that once upon a time defined her living did no more. Like her body, her life had been reduced to the most fundamental level, one where Hello and Goodbye and Thank you and Praise the Lord all mean I love you, and perhaps that is what it should mean for all of us.

On July 23, the NASCAR Nationwide series stopped in Nashville, Tennessee. It was an evening that promised all-you-can-handle-and-some-you-can’t action, the sort of reckless redneckery of screaming engines and burning rubber that has made racing one of the most popular sports in America.

With all it’s modern equipment and cutting-edge technology, NASCAR is nonetheless steeped in tradition. Its roots run all the way back to Prohibition, and its drivers are for the most part good ol’ country boys. And every race begins with a prayer.

That night in Tennessee, the honor of providing the invocation fell on the shoulders of Pastor Joe Nelms, a Nashville local. With heads bowed, hats doffed, and cameras on, Pastor Joe took the microphone and prayed this:

What happened afterwards was the sort of media deluge that could only happen in the age of YouTube and social media. Pastor Joe Nelms became an overnight celebrity. ESPN had a field day. Newspapers, news channels, blogs, radio. All carried the prayer, all had the same question—Why?

Here’s what Pastor Nelms said in one interview:

“I want[ed] to get somebody’s attention, so that’s been our desire every time we’ve been up there, to try to make an impact on the fans and give them something they’ll remember, and maybe they’ll go home on a Friday night or a Saturday night and say, ‘Maybe I ought to get up and go to church in the morning.'”

And really, what better way to do that than to give thanks to mighty machines, GM performance technology, Sunoco racing fuel, Goodyear tires, and his smokin’ hot wife?

Now you’d probably be right in saying I caught wind of this and thought right off that Joe Nelms had just uttered a prayer the likes of which hadn’t been heard since Jesus Himself taught us to ask for our daily bread and to deliver us from evil. And why not? I wouldn’t consider myself a NASCAR guy, though I suspect I fit their target demographic of country-livin’, Levi-wearin’, tobacco-spittin’, jacked-up-Chevy drivin’ men.

But you know what? That’s not how I reacted. That’s not how I reacted at all.

And while I can appreciate the good Reverend’s intentions, I gotta say I was more than a little saddened. I was raised to take prayer sincerely. I close my eyes and bow my head with the knowledge that I am about to utter my feeble voice to the Lord of all creation, the Holy One who made not just me, but the farthest star and the tiniest atom. And more than that, He HEARS me. And more than even THAT, He cares about what I say, knows my words even before I speak them. Even before I think them.

It’s serious business, praying. And while I’m sure you realize God has a sense of humor—have you taken a look around lately?—I’m sure you also realize there is a time and a place. On bended knee is neither.

We live in a time when mockery of God is accepted, even cool. How many times a day do you hear, “Oh my God”? How many times do you get a text that contains OMG? How many times have you heard “Goddammit” on the television lately?

Plenty, I’d imagine, if you’re like me.

But we want to be cool. That’s the thing. We know our task is the Christian walk, but it’s a straight walk, a rigid one, so why not strut a little? Why not? If we dumb down God to make Him more accessible to people, more believable, more Jesus-would-have-a-beer-with-me, then is that such a bad thing?

Sometimes I think yes. It is.

God is not cool. I think we’d do well to remember that. I think we’d do well to keep close the treasured wisdom that He is big and holy and we are small and not. And I think it’s a good guess that what we often mistake as His laughter are really His tears.

Honestly—what did you think of that? Did you chuckle? Laugh? Or did you think something along the lines of, What the heck was that? Because I figure I’m either really, really right on this one, or really, really wrong.

It wasn’t meant to sound racist, and I didn’t take it that way. But if you would have been walking by when she said it, it maybe would’ve sounded that way. Friends have their own private vocabulary with one another. They get away with saying things that would maybe get them in hot water if said to someone else. That’s especially true when it comes to interracial friends.

So when Rozlyn suggested to me that “White choirs can’t sing right,” I had to snort, but I didn’t take offense.

We had a great choir at church. They dressed in nice robes and stood up straight and belted out the hymns with as much gusto as I’d ever seen. They made people raise their hands and sway back and forth and break out in big, toothy smiles.

But Roz’s choir? Everybody around here talked about Roz’s choir. They didn’t just make people sway and smile. They made people dance. Whether they wanted to or not. To me, there was a big difference between swaying and dancing, and I was curious as to what that difference was. She was the one who brought up the fact that it was because her choir was full of black people and mine was full of white. I wasn’t going to touch that subject, even with her.

“Sure white choirs can sing right,” I said.

She shook her head slowly so I’d understand. “No, they can’t. Now don’t get me wrong, they can sing sure enough. Sing pretty, too. But there’s a difference between singing and singing.”

“There is?” I asked.

Roz shook her head again. “You gotta be the whitest white boy in the world,” she said. “Of course there’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Tell you what. You come to my church Sunday night. We’re having a little praise time. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

So I went. I had to. The curiosity was killing me.

Her church was small by today’s standards. Small but nice. Comfortable. So it was fitting that the man who greeted me at the door was also small, nice, and comfortable.

“Evenin’ to you,” he said as he handed me a bulletin. “Praise the Lord.”

“Back at’cha,” I said, which brought a chuckle and a solid thump to my back.

I took a seat about halfway up on the left side and spent the next ten minutes standing up and sitting down when folks would walk over to welcome me. A few Yes sirs and Thank you ma’ams later, out walked Roz and the rest of the choir.

Sixteen people by my count, ranging in age from sixty to somewhere in the teens. Evenly divided between men and women. Not much different than the choir at our church except for the fact that they weren’t holding sheet music.

The choir director floated behind the pulpit and led us in an opening prayer. His “Amen!” was the cue for the organist to start, the choir director to start directing, and the congregation to stand.

The organist was nearing the end of the introduction and the director began to raise his hands to signal the choir’s entrance. Roz smiled at me and winked, as if telling to me that I’d better get ready. I would have if I’d known what to get ready for.

What happened next goes well beyond what I can describe with fingers and a keyboard. You’d have to be here, with me, so you could see the expression on my face as I’d tell it. But I’ll try. When the director threw his hands down and the choir sang that first word (fittingly, that first word was “PRAISE!!”), the sound very nearly knocked me backwards into my seat. I had to grab the pew in front of me to balance myself.

The church exploded in song. Some shot their hands into the air. Others clapped. Others pointed their faces toward the ceiling while their eyes gazed beyond and into heaven itself. Tears welled in my eyes at the sound. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t clap, couldn’t raise my hands, couldn’t even breathe. Roz looked at me and smiled. Whitest white boy in the world, indeed.

This wasn’t singing. I knew that then. No, this was singing.

Afterwards, I sat in the parking lot with Roz, her husband, and their daughter.

“See what I mean?” she said.

“Lesson learned,” I told her. “That was incredible.”

“Nothing incredible about it,” she promised. “Just different.”

“I see that,” I said. “Still don’t understand it, though.”

“Look,” she said, “you know I ain’t one of those black people all up in her history. This is my country, not somewheres in Africa, and my kin were slaves, but you ain’t got a hand in that. We’re just the same in a lot of ways, you and me. But there’s a difference. The faith you got from your momma and daddy was come by the easy way. The faith I got from mine wasn’t.

“We found faith out in the fields. Found it getting whipped and beat on and bought and sold. We hurt, you see? That’s why we can sing. Because the more you suffer, the more you have to thank God for when He leads you out of it. Our singing isn’t just praise. It’s thanks, too.”

I saw then. I understood. Roz was right. We can all sing, but only the wounded can sing truly. Only the maimed and the hurt and the bruised and broken. The best voices are those who not only have cause to praise God, but thank Him, too. And that’s good. Because this whitest white boy in the world came to Him as just that.